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THE BRIDGES OF KING’S HILL
Vithal Rajan
vithalrajan(at)hotmail.com
A violet autumnal evening had fallen over the city of Isfahan. Sofiya’s house was in the northern outskirts, and her room was the northernmost, the casements flung open to let in the scented breeze from her garden. She snuggled deep under the thick quilt, with riotous summer flowers hand-embroidered by her mother, and looked at the far-off mountains, sprinkled with fresh snow.
“Daddy! Wouldn’t it be lovely to live high up on the mountains?” she exclaimed. “In a city built on the highest peak?”
Naseeruddin wasn’t so sure.
“It could get frightfully cold, darling,” he said. “And think of sleet on all the steep streets! Everyone would be sliding and slipping, and poor Grandma would get hurt. Even a donkey cart would find it difficult coming up with the morning groceries.”
Sofiya was still enthusiastic.
“But Daddy, it would all be so much fun! And I’m sure I could hold Grandma’s arm when we went walking up and down the streets,” she said. “Why don’t people ever live on mountains?”
“But they do, my dear,” said Naseeruddin reasonably. “There’s Lhasa, that’s the capital of Tibet, and there’s Quito, that’s the capital of Ecuador. But these cities are in high mountain valleys, sheltered by the mountains themselves. In the old days, kings built their palaces within forts on hills to protect them from raiders. In fact in those mountains you see to the north, but far, far to the east, near where they join the Hindu Kush, a king once built a new city, which everyone called the King’s Hill. He got into lots of trouble till he was helped by a very poor man.
Sofiya was interested.
“Oh, do tell me about him,” she said, settling back comfortably on her pillows.
“All right,” said Naseeruddin, “I’ll tell you a story my uncle the Mullah told me long ago, but you must go to sleep after the story.”
Sofiya nodded, and turned to look at the mountains once again, now touched with russet and gold by the fading sun.
Long, long ago, in the year Minus 1234, which is very long ago, far to the east in Persia – started Naseeruddin in his best story-telling style – there lived a king called – well, we don’t know his real name – but he built his capital on a hill, and it was called King’s Hill. He wanted to protect himself from nomads and other raiders, especially the Bruzz, now don’t ask me why they were called the Bruzz. Maybe because anyone who messed with them got bruised. That’s probably the right explanation, for the Head of the Bruzz was called The Bruiser! Anyway, maybe they later went on into Lebanon, and came to be known as the Druss! Such name changes happened all the time in olden times. The Hindus, for example, were people who lived along the Sindhu river, but the Greeks got their name wrong, and they are stuck with it now, poor fellows. Their Banjara tribes came into Persia along with Chengiz Khan’s troops, and then followed them into Egypt. But years later when these nomads went to Roumania, they were called Gypsies, because everyone thought they really belonged to Egypt, and later when they lifted their tents and went to the broad pasture lands of Hungary, the Europeans called them Romany! So, you see, names change with the years, or they used to.
Anyway, the king wanted to make peace with the Bruzz, so he married the Bruzi princess, and called her ‘His Woman,’ – they were quite crude in those days, you know, in fact the French still do so – and the Bruzz not to be out-done called him ‘Her Man!’ So that’s the only name we know him by – Herman – since an account of those days has been left to us by the Bruzi princess who was a lot cleverer than the king.
Now the king had his good points, though he couldn’t read or write, for one thing, he danced beautifully. That’s what really won over the Bruzi princess, if you want to know. He invented most of the dances we know, except the waltz, which was taught to him by his nurse, Matilda. His favourite dance, though, was the Salsa. You thought it was invented by Cubans, didn’t you? Well, you are wrong, as is everybody else, it was taken to Cuba by descendents of the people of King’s Hill. It was first danced by Herman of the Salsa, as he came to be known later, up and down the land.
Herman of the Salsa had many knights in his entourage, in fact, more than many kings of his day. But they all had duties to perform – guarding the city from raiding Bruzz, or supervising harvesting, or even just chivvying the peasants so that they wouldn’t doze off under the balmy summer sun. While Herman was glad his knights were doing their duty, he got impatient when it came to dancing time, and there were very few around when a good tune was struck up. So he invented a special Two-Tone Bell, which all could hear, even if they were at the edges of his kingdom. The best dancing knights were to hurry back to the palace for a dance when the Two-Tone Bell was struck under pain of royal displeasure. When these Two-Tone Knights – for that’s how the ordinary people came to call them – came hurrying onto the dance floor, the king was very pleased, and would salsa away the night with his queen.
The Two-Tone Knights, though, began to grumble. Not that they did not like to dance. They liked nothing better, that is, besides chivvying peasants or killing the Bruzz. But getting into the palace was a big problem. The king like a prudent ruler had chosen a hilly island in a river for his capital, so that the river formed a natural protective moat all round it. His people also liked the idea very much for the river was full of eels, which they could fish straight from their living room windows. But once the city was built, they started calling the eel river ‘The Pretzel,’ don’t ask me why, for there are no pretzels in Persia, people are just strange. The king had a wooden drawbridge thrown over the river which could be pulled back quickly if there was an attack. But the knights found this single bridge a nuisance. They had to splash through the river wherever they were coming from, and go all the way round to find it. The people also didn’t like all these Two-Tone Knights clogging up the traffic as they thundered over the simple wooden bridge, especially on market days, but they were more polite about their grievance.
“All right, we will have another bridge on the other side,” said the king, who was all accommodation.
“But what about us, who are on the far northern marches,” argued some knights.
“And yes, what about us in the southern pastures?” asked others.
“All right,” said the king, “we will have bridges all round, to the east, to the west, to the north and even to the south.”
So that was settled, and four bridges were built. But the new bridges didn’t make everyone happy. The butchers were the first to complain.
“Galloping knights throw a dirty big mask of dust all over the meat,” they said, “and it was no use the king’s chef yelling at us, he should speak to the knights first.”
The greengrocers said, “ Yes, we can wash all the vegetables after all the knights have ridden off, true, but it all takes time, and a down-turn in the economy doesn’t help the city, or anyone else, Your Honour.”
Only the blacksmiths were happy with their bridge, for hard-riding knights meant custom, so they welcomed them, dust or no dust.
So, the king, who was really a good chap, built a new broad bridge with big state-supported markets on either side, which pleased all the shop-keepers, and a new high bridge that no-one but the knights would want to use, and finally to please His Woman, that is the queen, a nice little bridge leading to the flowered gardens from which bee-keepers brought her everyday a fresh jar of honey. She had a sweet tooth, besides having a sweet smile and a sweet nature. Every year in spring, she would grant a chest full of gold to anyone who brought her the sweetest honey for tea, and for that year that honey would be known as The Grantchester Honey for Tea, believe you me.
Sofiya interrupted: “Did you say there were seven bridges in all, Daddy?”
“Yes, there were seven in all,” said Naseeruddin.
“I am getting muddled,” persisted Sofiya. “Can you show me a map where they were in the town?”
Naseeruddin smiled. “As it so happens, Great Uncle the Maulana, did leave me a map. Look! Here it is!” And he showed Sofiya this map.
Sofiya smiled when she saw the map. “I understand now everything clearly,” she said, “do go on, Daddy.”
Everyone was very, very happy with these seven bridges of King’s Hill, continued Naseeruddin, except poor old Kalin the Oiler. You see, being on a hill, the city got quite cold most nights, and everyone, especially the king and his knights in their draughty dancing halls, needed heating oil for their furnaces. Persia has always been rich in oil, so that’s why all these bandits from olden days have raided the country under one pretext or another. But old Kalin the Oiler didn’t have to worry about that, his job was to supply oil to King’s Hill, and he took his donkey and oil-cart laden with oil jars everyday into the city through one bridge or the other, he had a day-pass for every one of them. Once he entered through one bridge, let’s say the ShopkeepersBridge, the guards who had strict instructions would tear off his bridge-pass and tell him to use another bridge on his way out. They were all highly trained, and kept a keen eye out for anyone who did not have a pass. Even in those days, as I said, there were all these foreign terrorists who tried to steal the country’s oil.
Kalin the Oiler didn’t like the steep streets of the city, built as it was on a hill. His donkey liked them even less. The least tiring way to supply oil to houses in different parts of the city, and even to various wings of the king’s sprawling palace, was to go in and out of the bridges, off-load his jars and be back home before nightfall. But every time he went through a bridge, his day-pass got torn off and when he had finished his last delivery he found himself back in the middle of town without any bridge-pass left to get him home. You can imagine poor Kalin’s state of mind. Several nights he spent at a friend’s home or at a lodging. The next day he would be late with the heating oil, and get roundly scolded. The Superintendent of the Bridge Guards called him a stupid old Oiler, and said surely he could manage his routes better and find his way home at night.
One night, the lodging-house keeper advised him to consult the Great Philosopher, who everyone knew, knew all the answers.
“How do I find the Great Philosopher?” asked poor old Kalin the Oiler.
“Well that’s easy,” said the lodging-house keeper. “Stand in the main square at 7.43 sharp in the morning and you will meet him taking his constitutional. Can set your watch, God bless him!”
Kalin was in the main square by 7.15 in the morning, he was that anxious to get the Great Philosopher’s advice. It was a sharp cold morning, and he had to jump up and down and stamp his feet to keep warm and blow on his fingers, but as the lodging-house keeper had said, the Great Philosopher entered the square from the palace end at 7.43 sharp. He wore a long velvet coat that sparkled with stars and crescents, and on his head was a high black fur cap. He waved his arms and talked to himself in deep tones, no doubt about very weighty matters.
“Excuse me, Sir…I mean, Oh, Great Philosopher,” stammered poor old Kalin the Oiler, I don’t mean to disturb your Highness, no Sir, but… but… could you show me the way to cross the seven bridges just once every day, and still get home?”
The Great Philosopher looked all round at hearing his voice, and then at last spotted Kalin the Oiler standing right in front of his nose.
“What did you say?” asked the Great Philosopher irritably. “Speak clearly, man, don’t mumble!”
Kalin the Oiler stammered out his humble request once again.
“Ah, Ha!” cried the Great Philosopher, mightily pleased. “I see you are not yet Enlightened! You must emerge from your own self-imposed immaturity!” Actually, he said ‘unmündigkeit’ for that’s the way philosophers speak, but we shouldn’t for we are ordinary folk.
“What you need to do my dear oily friend,” said the Great Philosopher animatedly, poking Kalin in the chest with a long fore-finger, “what you need to do is use your own intellect without the direction of another. Do you understand? You are responsible for this immaturity” – he once again said unmündigkeit – “and, and dependence! Its cause, permit me to inform you, is not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of determination and courage! Sapere aude! Dare to know!”
With that the Great Philosopher turned and started to walk away, but Kalin was quite determined to get advice, if there was advice to be got. He ran after him and grabbed his long flowing velvet coat.
“Please, Sir, please tell me how to cross the seven bridges,” he pleaded.
“Shan’t! Won’t! Can’t! Can’t! Can’t!” yelled the Great Philosopher, stamping his foot like a child.
“Why do you keep shouting Can’t! Can’t! Can’t?” asked Kalin in confusion.
“What else can I say?” asked the Great Philosopher, puzzled.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Kalin in anguish.
“Yes, you spoke to me?” asked the Great Philosopher calmly this time.
Kalin shook his head. “I just said Jesus,” he said weakly.
“I thought so,” said the Great Philosopher thoughtfully. “The name we commonly use to call on the Messiah. In ancient Aramaic we use another name for God with us… Anyway, what did you want?”
Kalin looked at him helplessly.
“Yes, I recollect now,” said the Great Philosopher smiling brightly. “You, by the looks of you, should be an oiler. Right? You, in other words, belong to the category of servants known as oilers. And it is imperative you do your duty as an oiler, or we will all freeze to death of cold. There! I have solved your problem!”
The Great Philosopher once again turned to go. Kalin clung to him like a drowning man.
“Sir! Sir! Do…do tell me… how I am to cross the seven bridges just once every day!” he stammered out weakly.
“So! That’s your problem! Why didn’t you say so at the start. My dear Oiler, act only according to that maxim whereby you can – at the same time – will that it should become a universal law! That’s all you need to know." And with another muttered unmündigkeit the Great Philosopher was gone.
“Never mind him,” said John the herder, who had been standing by listening to all this, along with his interested swine. “He isn’t all that great a philosopher, as they make him out to be.”
Kalin went back home very dejected. But he was a game old oiler. He tried every possible route he could think off, but every time he found himself locked into the city without any way home open till next morning brought him a new set of day-passes. Everyone laughed at his stupidity. Funny stories about Kalin the Oiler circulated well beyond even the boundaries of that small kingdom. He didn’t mind if people laughed at him and his stupidity. He was a good-natured chap. But he did mind spending the night in a lodging in town. So, when he really could not find a way to cross every bridge on his route without getting caught inside for the night, he carefully put away one last bridge-pass into a deep inside pocket, and finished his deliveries walking up and down the steep streets. This made him very tired, and once or twice in a day his donkey would just sit down and refuse to move. Consequently, he got home very late, tired, ill, and irritable.